Alt-Europe: A GQ Guide to the Continent's Most Underrated Cities

Europe's mega-cities have their justly enshrined Famous Things You Must See and Do—but it's easy to grow weary of the obligation (and the traffic, and those damn sightseeing buses). This is when you turn to the second cities of Europe, those middle siblings and funky cousins of the overcrowded capitals that are both less familiar and more knowable, offering a release from the pressure of hitting all the right places. You heard about that bar tucked into a side alley in Belfast? Neither did we, until now.—Adam Sachs

Lose Yourself In

Porto

Portugal

It didn't look like much. A murky little café across from an underground parking garage. A few stools. Four scrawny-necked barflies standing watch by the door, nursing short beers and ancient grievances. But I'd come straight from the airport, walked myself to exhaustion up and down the steep slopes of the old town, and there was still an hour before hotel check-in time.

Stepping in from the sunlight, I ordered a fino—a little glass of draft beer—and let my eyes adjust. I'd been prematurely unkind. There was a homey warmth about the murk. And there was a gargantuan leg of roasted pork sitting in a glass case on the bar, shrouded by a dainty piece of lace like some holy artifact.

In the old days, you went to Porto simply for the famous fortified wine, that sweet, dark, and engaging shot of history and culture in a glass. Now the city itself is the draw: resurgent neighborhoods, packed and port-soaked bars, blocks of galleries and multifangled arts/retail spaces. I wanted to lose myself for a few days in the anti-grid of crazy hills, winding vertical lanes paved in black and white tiles, architecture layered in various stages of glory and decrepitude.

Behind the bar, an exact twin of Eugene Levy attended to the pork with ritual care, making conversation with the dapper gentleman on the stool next to mine.

"He wants to know how you found this place," my neighbor said of the owner carving the roast leg.

I admitted I was lost but that the pork had me thinking about lunch. Soon a plate of soft cheese from the nearby mountains was in front of me. A bottle of house-label vinho verde was uncorked. The wine was cloudy, slightly fizzy, cheap, refreshing, and entirely delicious.

The next day, I returned to A Casa Guedes, as I'd come to learn my little bar was called. Portuguese Eugene Levy shook my hand. A bottle of the vinho verde arrived without my asking. I wasn't headed home for a few days, but I felt like I'd already arrived.—A.S.

Ride a wave (or a buzz) at Matosinhos beach in Porto.

How to Get There:Francisco de Sá Carneiro Airport

Where to Crash: The Yeatman (go big) or The Four Rooms (go budget)

How to Kill an Afternoon: The galleries, cafés, and design shops along Rua de Miguel Bombarda

Insider Info: Port lodges are all the same. Pick one.

Porto specialties: coastline, cute fashion students.

The Other Riviera

Dubrovnik

Croatia

Miraculously, Dubrovnik's history of political tumult and war alchemized a city that feels like vacation. Somehow it's both stunning—all red roofs, white walls, and deep-blue water—and unpretentious. Spend the day drinking Croatian white wine on Stradun, the city's main drag. Wander by foot or by taxi. And no matter where you are in the city, the beach isn't far. To top it off, Dubrovnik is less expensive and less of a scene than the coasts of France or Italy. The only downside: That won't last forever.—Josh Benson

How to Get There:Dubrovnik Airport

Where to Crash: Grand Villa Argentina

Where to Eat: The terrace at Nautika

The living postcard that is Dubrovnik's Old Town.

Don't Call It a Comeback

Riga

Latvia

A visit to Riga in the surreal '90s— just after Latvian independence, when the former Soviet satellites came stumbling into the capitalist light—left me struck by the strange linger of USSR noir clinging to that city on the Baltic: Even the dacha where I stayed with a friend, a beautiful villa by the water, painted in camouflage to make itself invisible from the air, was said to have been the summer resort of Khrushchev—and the place where Boris Yeltsin agreed to grant the Baltic states their independence. The whole place reeked of menace and potential beauty, of tragedy and promise. One could sense that Riga's edginess would either define or doom the place.

Fifteen years later, Riga has hardily survived the dark spasm of its transition, assuming the mantle of de facto cultural center of the Baltics with a thumping nightlife scene, beautiful surroundings, and more than a few architectural wonders. With its mix of East and West, Riga is also a work in progress, in flux, in flower. In the Central Market, you're still as likely to hear Russian as Latvian or English. And that beautiful old dacha I once stayed in? The camouflage has been mostly scrubbed off, but traces remain, a chiaroscuro of its communist past and bright, humming present.—Michael Paterniti

How to Get There:Riga International Airport

Where to Crash: Neiburgs, a Scandinavian-style design hotel

Can't-Miss Meal: Fresh bread and local cheeses at the Central Market

How to Kill an Afternoon: Sweat out the free-flowing vodka at updated Russian-style baths like ESPA and Taka Spa.

Riga got the memo that pastel colors are in for this season.

Travel Smart Tip #39

The Case for Flying Solo

My sophomore year abroad, my best bud and I planned a trip to Lucerne. One problem: He missed our train. I already had a packed bag and a Eurail pass, so I did what any 19-year-old fresh off his first viewing of Before Sunrise would do: I went it alone.

Rolling one-deep was glorious. I found myself—after five months of compromising with high rollers and penny-pinchers, McDonald's addicts and locavores, museum freaks and budding alcoholics—free to indulge every impulse. I hiked until sundown. I drank with strangers past 5 a.m. Then I ditched them and found new drinking pals.

The next morning, when I woke up at noon, I had a champion's breakfast of canned Heineken and the best Gruyère ever churned. And I felt utterly lucid. Now I'll prescribe myself a one-man wander through Europe when I need to reset. And being single—well, let's just say I haven't found my Julie Delpy, but I have met a lot of blondes. —Andrew Richdale

Come for the Beer, Stay for the Soccer, Speed, and Beer

Munich

Germany

Unless you're a die-hard sports nut, it's tough to spend a long weekend in Manchester or St. Andrews. Not so with Munich. It's just as worldly as Berlin, with I'll-have-everything restaurants (Schweiger2 Restaurant Showroom), sexy crash pads (Louis Hotel), up-and-coming hangout hoods (Schwanthalerhhe, a.k.a. the Westend), and unimpeachable lagers, but it's also candidate number one for a Continental sporting sojourn.—Daniel Riley

Das Boot It

You're here to support Germany's most decorated Bundesliga soccer squad, Bayern Munich, which plays in the world's most beautiful stadium, Allianz Arena. Book a trip between August and May and get tickets to watch Der FCB take on rivals Borussia Dortmund and FC Schalke 04.

Do Some Speed

Skim the metro out to the BMW Museum to stare at vintage Bimmers, retired race cars, and concept cars. Since you're already out here, stick around to roam the rolling hills and swim halls of the Olympic Park, site of the 1972 Summer Games. And true gearheads will want to make the pilgrimage to the legendary Hockenheim track, site of drag races and the German Grand Prix, one of Formula One's marquee races.

Go for the Golden Lagers

Beer is likely the biggest—and most competitive—sport in Munich. Play hard at rollicking biergarten Chinesischer Turm.

Out: London

In: East London

London proper can be a slog: The theaters are always sold out, the pubs are jammed with Downton Abbey-loving tourists bearing Topman bags, and the Tate Modern's as crowded and frantic as a soccer stadium. So go east to neighborhoods like Shoreditch, Bethnal Green, and Whitechapel. There you'll find cool-kid hangouts, oddball art collectives, and after-hours clubs—and a London that's wilder and weirder than you ever expected.—Mark Lotto

There's art inside and outside London's Loungelover bar.

The Owl Pussycat

Where rockers and models eat cod with broad-bean risotto. As the menu warns: "Fish may contain bones. Olives may contain stones. Game may contain shot."

Boundary

A hundred years ago, this was a Victorian textile warehouse. Now it's the city's most inventive boutique hotel, with rooms inspired by the Shakers, the Scandinavians, and Le Corbusier.

DreamBagsJaguarShoes

Despite the name, it doesn't sell bags, shoes, or jaguars. But walking around this place does feel like a fever dream, since this is probably the first art collective/mixtape label/pizzeria/coffee bar/cocktail bar/Sardinian restaurant you'll have ever visited.

Bar Prague

New tongue twister: Punks pick a peck of pickled herring and pungent veg while perusing poetry and pouring Czech pilsners.

The Repton Boxing Club

The British analogue of Gleason's Gym in Brooklyn; this is where future prizefighters spar. Ask nice and they might let you watch.

Marcus Samuelsson Approved!

Gothenburg

Sweden

I'm walking with hometown hero Marcus Samuelsson, the Harlem-transplanted chef who cooks for the king.

"Stockholm is the beautiful big sister with all the money," he says. "G-burg is a little beat-up, a little grittier." That's a compliment. His first Gothenburg restaurant, Norda, is a "love letter" to a city full of boutiques stocked with earnest blonde girls in bangs, and industrial buildings repopulated by graphic designers and tech start-ups. This is the Williamsburg, Brooklyn, of Europe, I suggest. "It's fucking Pittsburgh, man!" Marcus swears, and again he means it as highest praise.—A.S.

How to get there: Gothenburg-Landvetter Airport

Where to Crash: Clarion Hotel Post

Where to Eat: Familjen

Watering Hole: Peacock Dinner Club

Get a day pass for about $9 and cruise the city by blue tram.

Get That Peaceful Easy Feeling In

Belfast

Northern Ireland

While Dublin has grown into a teeming Euro-metropolis, Belfast is still reckoning with the aftereffects of what natives call "the Troubles," the understated sobriquet for those thirty or so years of brogue-on-brogue violence. Tourists stay away, because they associate Belfast with getting blown up—a strong disincentive, granted—except it's been peaceful for almost fifteen years now.

Besides, that whole "fear of car bombs" thing has worked out in the city's favor, preserving Belfast as a chummy, unspoiled secret that's hiding in plain sight. You can effortlessly crack this place open, slip into its bloodstream, and settle in.

Wander into No Alibis, the crime-fiction bookshop with an oil painting of Peter Falk mounted on the ceiling. Down stouts at the Duke of York, a snaky, seat-filled watering hole in Cathedral Quarter. You might bump into at least one cast member from Game of Thrones (which films in town). "This is a stand-alone city," says Aidan Gillen, who plays Littlefinger on the show. "It's welcoming despite experiencing such heavy shit over the years."—Devin Gordon

How to Get There: Fly into Dublin and drive.

Where to Crash: The Merchant Hotel Where to Eat: Mourne Seafood Bar, a no-frills shellfish spot with fresh mussels, langoustines, and oysters

How to Kill an Afternoon: Drive to the coast for Giant's Causeway, immortalized on the cover of Led Zeppelin's Houses of the Holy.

Just after 5 p.m. you'll swear someone pulled a fire alarm in the massive arcaded Palazzo della Ragione. People are hanging out in swelling crowds all over the nearby piazza, gesticulating, smoking, looking Italian. And then you realize that everyone has a drink in hand—a bright red effervescent liquid on the rocks. In America this could be a misdemeanor, but in northern Italy they call it spritz.

The drink (recipe at right) isn't just a cocktail; it's an essential ritual of this polished, tony northern city—and for you, an organizing principle. Spend your morning staring at Giotto's Scrovegni Chapel frescoes, which altered the course of representational painting, or do some suit shopping along cobblestone streets lined with iconic Italian boutiques.

Then take the twenty-five-minute train ride into Venice for the afternoon, because an afternoon is all you need. You should absolutely ride the water taxis through blue-green canals hedged in by palatial Renaissance homes. You absolutely shouldn't try to navigate the maze of tourist traps in search of an authentic meal, which you can get anywhere in Padova for half the price.

When you get back to town, drink at the fringes of the expansive Piazza della Frutta and in the enotecas along the back alleys of il ghetto, a neighborhood that's not ghetto at all. And because you left the tourists back in Venice, you don't need a guidebook to find your way.—Stan Parish

Drinking in public in Padova's Piazza delle Erbe isn't just tolerated, it's expected.

Take The Spritz Home

There are no strict rules when it comes to a spritz, so think of these as guidelines. Love Campari? Add some more. Splash of gin? You wouldn't be the first.

3 oz. prosecco

11/2 oz. Aperol or Campari or Cynar

11/2 oz. soda water

1 green olive

(for garnish)

Pour all the liquid ingredients over ice in a tumbler. Gently stir and add the olive.

Travel Smart Tip #84**

Splurge on Lunch**

I sprung for one bucket-list meal the last time I was in Europe, at Osteria Francescana on a quiet street in Modena. There was one other couple in the dining room when we showed up for lunch. Yes, lunch. Suddenly Massimo Bottura, arguably the world's best Italian chef, was standing at our table, asking what we felt like eating. He worked the dining room all afternoon, chatting, adding garnishes himself—the stuff he'd never get to do (and we'd never get to experience) during the dinner rush. Afterward we walked off the wine pairings in the sunshine, and for dinner we ate light.—S.P.

Sunburns and Booze In

San Sebastian

You can't remember how many hours you've been out on this city beach, dozing on the hot sand beneath the Kursaal's white cubes. But you woke up hungry, and you've heard about the pintxos, those inventive little bar snacks. You figure you'll stop off for a sample before looping back.

But then it's a few hours later, and you can't remember how many glasses you've downed of Txakolina, the fizzy sharp Basque white wine, or how many slices of jamón or padrón peppers you've eaten. You can't even remember when you last sat down for a meal. Or when you were sober.

The next morning, you wake up and do it all over again, because, really, who's counting?—M.L.

The boardwalk at Playa de la Concha. Salmon pintxos in Restaurante Gandarias.

How to Get There: San Sebastian Airport

Where to Crash: Astoria7

Watering Hole: A Fuego Negro

Beach Info: La Concha is crowded; Zurriola is half-naked.

Day Trip: You're only a short bus ride from Biarritz.

Travel Smart Tip #107

Two Cities are Better Than One

The beauty of the sidekick city is that it's pressure-free. Come and go as you please. So don't be afraid to hit that "Multi-city" button on Kayak.com and start scheming. Valencia to Seville? An hour's flight. Valencia to Munich? Just over two. You've already crossed the Atlantic. Take advantage.—Jon Wilde

Bullfighting In

Seville

Seville seems genteel: Its city streets are perfumed by orange blossoms and trod by dapper men in loafers and women in dresses. But at its heart, almost literally, is a vicious, primitive tradition that's thoroughly exhilarating, if not entirely p.c.

Your first day here, have the hotel press your shirt, then head to the bullring—the Plaza de Toros de la Real Maestranza de Caballería de Sevilla, an elegant arena that's the oldest in Spain—and catch a fight with the well-dressed crowd. (It's worth the extra dinero to get seats in the shade.)

Give yourself over to a blood sport where a skinny dude in embroidered tights dances with—and then drives a sword into—an angry beast the size of a minivan. People really do shout "Olé!" It's a gruesome, gorgeous spectacle.—Oliver Strand

The insanely opulent Alcazar palace.

How to Get There: Seville Airport

Where to Crash: For old-world luxury, the Alfonso XIII

What to Drink: The rebujito—sherry and Sprite on ice (trust us)

How to Kill an Afternoon: Wander the Alcazar, the sprawling royal palace built up over ten centuries.

Everything Goes in

Valencia

On a two-week tear through Spain, Valencia was just a whistle-stop between Barcelona and Andalusia. And yet it was Valencia that I crowed about to friends.

For every adventure I had in the city, there was another I had to file away for my next visit. I climbed the cathedral tower for a sunset view of the ancient palimpsest of Roman, Moorish, and Catholic cultures, but I missed Santiago Calatrava's stunning architectural nerdplex, the City of Arts and Sciences. I sampled paella and all i pebre (a spicy, slithery eel stew) in sleepy El Palmar, but I returned too late to stall-shop at the Mercado Central. I watched friends of friends buy hash in dark, graffitied Russafa, then smoked it out in the open while slurping horchata side by side with locals.

There are no bullying starchitects here, like Barcelona's Gaudí, or a reigning historical style, as in Andalusia. But the glory of Valencia is in the clash: the abstracted eyeballs of Arts and Sciences against the austere Gothic Silk Exchange. The grand market hosts fruit sellers by day and fashion parties at night; jazz quickly segues to salsa in a bar. Approach this town the way it regards itself—without a plan—and you'll be just fine.—Boris Kachka

Call ahead if you want to eat at one of the beachfront tables at Casa Navarro in Valencia.

How to Get There: Fly direct, or spend a day in Madrid, then take the AVE high-speed train to Valencia (a ninety-minute ride).

Where to Crash: Hotel Acta del Carmen Can't-Miss Meal: Paella at La Pepica, Hemingway's old haunt by the beach

When to Go: Mid-March offers both good weather and Las Fallas, the days-long citywide bacchanal that culminates with everyone partying while watching massive papier-mâché effigies burn.

Our Favorite Second City Island

Corsica

France

Santorini was a fine place to visit, before it became the official destination of couples on their second honeymoon. Anyway, Corsica is closer. It's the northernmost of the two Mediterranean islands that sit between southern France and the upper laces of Italy's boot. And it's where natives of both countries go to escape the August invasions of their homelands by, well, us.

The island is spiritually about one-third Italian but technically French (they bought it from the Genovese in 1768), which means you get the best of both worlds here. From France: charcuterie, crisp rosé, and the day-drinking, sun-worshipping beach culture commodified on the French Riviera. From Italy: fresh pasta studded with fresher seafood, and better manners than you find in France. And this is just the start of Corsica's appeal; it's like a living collage, stitched together from travel brochures of places you've always wanted to visit.—S.P.

To get here, fly into your pick of French or Italian port cities (Marseille, Nice, Genova, Livorno) and drive your underpowered rental onto a ferry. A few hours later, you pull into Bastia.

Drive south, past lush green hills that morph into a coastline as dramatic as Big Sur's. It's all sprawling bays and rocky coves hemmed in by turquoise water that was seemingly piped in from the Caymans. Head for the outskirts of the city of Porto Vecchio.

Just outside town is Casadelmar, a waterfront hotel with yachts tied up in front of a horizon pool, andthe kind of place they set scenes in Bond films. Stay in a suite or at the nearby Pozzo di Mastri, a working farm that makes everything it serves in the restaurant, including the herbal after-dinner shots. The first round's free, so buy a second. All you have to do tomorrow is discover a new white-sand beach.

Alt-Europe: A GQ Guide to the Continent's Most Underrated Cities

Pasta in Padova, not gondolas in Venice. Bullfights in Seville, not pickpockets in Barcelona. Boxing in East London, not Big Ben in the Queen's London, and nine more ways to explore Europe without ever setting foot in a tourist trap

Europe's mega-cities have their justly enshrined Famous Things You Must See and Do—but it's easy to grow weary of the obligation (and the traffic, and those damn sightseeing buses). This is when you turn to the second cities of Europe, those middle siblings and funky cousins of the overcrowded capitals that are both less familiar and more knowable, offering a release from the pressure of hitting all the right places. You heard about that bar tucked into a side alley in Belfast? Neither did we, until now.—Adam Sachs